Cold As December
by Pacificsun
Summary: His moral code was somehow ambiguous, elusive to the ever-observant Mail. How he sinned so readily yet prayed just as readily at his bedside each night. It was confusing and contradictory and struck a shade of grey in such a black and white perception."
1. Enter

Children are morbid creatures

Children are morbid creatures. Only so because they have such time left they can afford to be morbid. They can afford to think dreadful thoughts of dying, of rampant disease, of the crushing weight that is the horrors of this world. Most of them made a familiar friend with horror already. In an orphanage, almost everybody had a story. It was not pasted across their chest, not lighted on a neon sign. But everybody had a story.

The majority of them were not pleasant in quality. The pain of a losing a family, growing up alone, living on the streets, wallowing in poverty. Wammy's house was a plethora of despairing tales that blossomed from the experiences of its young inhabitants. Stories must stem from somewhere and it's curious that most stories are built upon a thick foundation of fact. Yes, it is garnished with gruesome additions with each vivid retelling, but if you go back to the root there lays a truth.

Each child brought there brings in a new story. The other children swoop in like a bird diving for a furiously crawling worm. They comfort the newcomer and not soon after his story would come spilling out. This would soon be added to the garish arsenal of stories. The children rejoiced in the horrors, buried their own in the countless others. They would grin with a grim kind of delight, perhaps one or two teeth missing from the front of their jaw.

Mail Jeevas had a story. His story was—in Mail's mind—one of the most terrible of the lot gathered over the years. But this opinion was kept solely to himself and himself alone. To the children's dismay his story was never told. It stayed locked in safeguard of his mind. Gathering dust in his memory banks. He had no interest in telling the other children only to have it retold numerous times.

So Mail let the children whisper, accusations spinning around them like a cyclone. He didn't care, he didn't care. That was his mantra. He told himself everyday, that he was so apathetic, that he cared nothing for the dull whispers. His name discernable from the jumble of words uttered quickly to the next listener. A hand cupped over the lips to conceal the secret away from prying ears.

Mail was quite fortunate—or unfortunate—to have very sharp ears

His mantra sounded dully inside his mind, reminding him of what he had always told himself. He didn't care, he never cared. Whatever you cared about shriveled up and died. Wilting and drying up before your very eyes. Mail was very careful not to care. He was a good pupil, he always came in second behind Near. That was, until the arrival of a new child. An addition to the Wammy family.

Mello was his chosen name. Roger let you pick your own alias after all. He was a kind old man, Mail was fond of him. However not fond enough to care about him, no, he cared for nothing. Nothing except his games. Games were good friends. You could buy them and replace them. If you began to bore of one you could simply acquire a new one without so much as batting an eyelash. Games were far more patient then man could ever hope to be.

-o-

It was just as any other day. Mail's books sat in the corner of his messy room. It was the kind of room that was dysfunctional yet still worked perfectly for him. It was a complete and utter mess on his side of the room but he knew where each and every possession laid. Where every precious item hid beneath the masses of clothes and games that pooled on his floor in cloth and plastic puddles. Mail worked well in the cramped, overflowing space. It was rather nice to walk in and be greeted by the familiar, perfect chaos.

His schoolbooks were placed in a neat stack atop the opposite bed to his. It belonged to no one in particular so he occasionally would stack things on it. Putting the empty, wasted space to use. It was a bit eerie how the bed just sat there, staring him back each night (seeing how Mail slept on his side). It had always been empty; Roger had been kind enough to grant him this. Occasionally someone would come looking for escape in the empty bed, Mail would have no protests. He had no qualms with this, but the idea of someone there, staring back at him as he tried to be lulled back into sleep every single eve. He hated the thought it.

It was almost as if the youth could look into those eyes, the eyes of the children at Wammys, and see the story. See the horror that made those eyes. See the rotting fruit and tainted water of the Earth, leaving its poor children nearly mad with how famished, how parched they are. Mail flickered between thought and reality. He broke his stupor by lowering the goggles onto his eyes. He loved his goggles like one would love an old friend. When they slipped over his eyes it was like the world was covered in a sticky yellow sheen. When he looked into those eyes, the eyes of the Wammy children, he couldn't see them. He couldn't see deep into those wounded orbs like he could with his own naked eye. Just that yellow tinge that blissfully blurred everything.

Mail flinched, head flicking over to the door. Another knock. The sound resonated through the room, a bit ominous as it echoed back at the red-head. It was mostly because of how little a knock came upon his door. It was occasionally a boy that desired to commandeer the free bed; hardly ever would that happen though. Mail was not well-liked. He was not looked up to even though he held the admirable rank of second. He just existed. He engaged nothing more and nothing less, doing his lot and moving on.

After all…he didn't care.

The idea of simply ignoring the knock was quite enticing. To wait until it passed and continue to wallow in delightful silence. Not often was there a knock, would it make him a fool to simply ignore it and let his antisocial tendencies overtake him? Mail paused, chewing his lip with a pensive look upon his features. After a moment he cleared his throat and prepared to speak.

Speaking, now there was a rarity. Mail spoke when he was spoken too; he was polite and responded in a well-mannered tone. The only time he was spoken to, however, was in class and he responded in a slightly robotic tone to the teachers that waited for the correct answer from him. He hated the way the teachers set him as an example, the way they glorified him as a goal for others to reach. They loved the way he answered with that sincere, automated tone and how quiet he was. The adults were so blind they could not even peer past the stone cold barrier that had been erected around Mail. They were even more stupid.

"Who is it?"

Mail spoke lamely, his voice sounding oddly off key from lack of use. He peered through the tinted screen of his goggles, waiting for a response. "Matt?" The muffled response was identified as Roger. He spoke using Mail's alias, as it was the norm for children of Wammy's. Their real name was emphasized as private property, a secret meant to be closely kept. This was alright; Mail had no problems with keeping a secret. He had no problem veiling things, hiding them away. In fact he would even be so bold as to say he was an expert on the matter.

"May I come in?"

A pause.

"Of course, Roger."

The knob turned, creaking with the effort. The door swung open, squealing with protest on its rusting hinges. "Matt," he said with a smile. Mail noted the creases and wrinkles from age that became more prominent as his lips moved in that simple motion.

"I wanted to introduce you to Mello, he's new here and I knew that you had an empty bed. I was wondering if you could show him some hospitality and allow him to stay with you for the time being. I'm confident you two will hit it off well."

Mail paused, his hand twitching slightly. He saw the smile still planted hopefully on Roger's face through the yellow tinted lens of his goggles. He knew that even if he allowed a snatch of his true feelings to slip through the carefully sealed wall, this Mello would end up boarding with him anyways. That Roger was the one who wielded the power and coming to him, asking, it was nothing but a formality. And of course, Mail knew he was expected to comply.

"I don't mind Roger." Mail clenched his teeth, glancing over at the unoccupied bed. He slid his goggled eyes back over to the doorway. This 'Mello' kid finally emerged from behind Roger. He was short and thin, his hair cut straight and squarely. The coloration was still a mystery due to Mail's coveted eyewear. But there was something about him…It was as if, despite his delicate appearance, that there was a commanding sort of aura surrounding Mello.

For the first time in a long time, Mail was intrigued.

Curiosity, naked and pure, is a strange thing to experience after having such an absence of it for so long. Roger gave an approving nod, stepping out and ushering Mello in. With another faint smile, he shut the door with a small noise. Mail was surprised by the way Mello straightened once Roger had exited. He placed a reproachful hand upon his hip, eyes taking in the red-head that sat across from them. For a while there were no words, just awkward, thick silence.

And then the new boy did the most unexpected of things. He set his small bag right down on the bed, knocking Mail's books over. When was the last time someone had been brash enough to do something such as that? To assert themselves in such a forward manner? It only piqued Mail's recurring interest. They stared across at each other for a moment.

Slowly, almost deliberately, Mail went to remove his goggles. He pushed them sluggishly back up to his head. Once they were perched on his nest of red, Mail stared back towards the intruder of his peace. Blond hair, pale skin, blue eyes. The color of his hair and eyes matched his delicate appearance but contrasted greatly with his disposition. His potent personality was somehow so intriguing to Mail; it just pulled him in Even though this newcomer seemed radically different from the generic child that was brought to Wammy's, one thing remained the same.

His eyes.

He had a story. Mail could see the demons dancing gleefully behind his pair hard blue orbs. They all had a story.

-o-

Mail watched in impenetrable silence, grim as he observed the Mello kid. He sat under the shade of the ancient tree, portable game in hand. The tree was quite old, so old in fact that it must be older than Roger himself, Mail mused privately. The knotted roots reached out their great, spindly hands, making quite comfortable seats. The broad branches hung down as though they held the weight of the world on them. Small dots of sunshine slipped slyly through the branches, sneaking through the green canopy.

Mello howled as he was kicked in the ribs. He was small, smaller than Mail at least, and his hot temper painted a nice red target upon his forehead. The red-head chewed his lip thoughtfully as one of the larger boys spit upon the fallen, blonde form. The fight had been sparked by a comment made by one of the older boys.

"Nice hair, blondie. What shampoo do you use?"

Naturally this had lit a confrontation and the offense was quite evident in the eyes of one perturbed Mello. The hot-headed young boy had made several rude hand-gestures and spouted more than a little bit of profanity. It was quite a show of his anger and disdain. One small comment had set him off like fireworks and he exploded in a colorful show for everyone else that shifted their attention to the spat that was starting to bloom. Before long fists had been drawn and threats had been exchanged. Mello was alone and he was much smaller, not to mention the now-boisterous crowd longed to watch him get clobbered senseless.

Even though Mello fought wildly, he eventually was knocked down. They demanded him to call uncle, to which he stubbornly refused. He spat upon the ground at their feet, his swelled pride not allowing him to give in. He received several sharp blows to his ribs and legs but still he didn't seem to waver. After long, they other boys began to bore of their human punching bag. They shuffled back indoors having had their fill of gruesome fun. The crowd of kids began to drift away soon after, losing interest now that the beating had ended. Soon the playground was deserted except for Mail and Mello. Mail played his game, glancing up occasionally to watch the writhing Mello struggle to get to his feet.

Mail flicked off his game and stretched to his feet. He sauntered over to the still-struggling Mello. He was on his hands and knees with his teeth clenched. His entire body was coiled and tense with pain. Mail got very close to him, closer than he had been to any other human being in what felt like centuries.

"You're an idiot," Mail stated flatly.

Mello froze in time, holding his body perfectly still. With what appeared to be a great effort, Mello forced himself to his feet. His face was already bruised and swelling unpleasantly. He bared his teeth with anger, his legs shaking to support his small frame. Mail noted that he had about and inch or two on the injured boy before him. "You didn't honestly think you had any sort of chance against those kids did you?" Mail continued his tone condescending and cynical.

"Shut it, asshole. You wouldn't understand."

Mail blinked. Understand? Understand what? That this kid stayed out in the sun too much, that he had trouble in his head? That he was a bloody idiot? Mail thought he understood it perfectly, in fact he seemed to have no doubt in his astute mind that he was correct in his assumption. He ground his teeth together, glancing up at the pained, defiant kid before him. "Understand?"

Even though Mail had meant to it come out slightly rude and a bit sarcastic, it ended up coming out in a curious tone. It was soft, not in the least beat cynical, and it didn't sound like the jaded Mail that the red-head knew himself to be. It was just that pure, naked curiosity again. Mello seemed to be provoking that out of him and Mail just couldn't help it. He couldn't help but fall under that questioning spell that left him feeling…feeling…

It's not like Mail was at a loss for words, in fact there were several he could have used at this point. None of these words, however, seemed to fit. Seemed to hold a place to perfectly describe what he was feeling, to just be that one word he needed to place at the end of that sentence.

"Why would I waste my breath explaining it to you?" Mello sneered back. Even though he was exhausted and could barely walk, he still managed to keep that spitfire spirit holding his words strong. Mail wanted to know, because even though at first he felt his resolve strong, it had been weakened with each passing second. But he feared that asking more; that pushing deeper would reveal_ too_ much. That it would make actually _care _what he was saying.

The blond held his head high and proud, limping back inside. Mail watched him go with a blank expression haunting his features. What he feared…what shook him to his core…He was starting to care again. That in itself was not to be feared, in fact Mail had always wanted someone to cherish, someone to look up to. What shook him was that all he ever cared about was quickly and sharply ripped away. It was a hard lesson to learn in this world, it was so damn unbearable. Learning it at such a young age left it ingrained in his mind and the scarred tissue stayed there as a pained reminder. And Christ, he couldn't take it.

He was still _just _a kid.

-o-

_Beep_

_Boop_

_Beep, beep_

Mail pretended not to pay attention.

The truth was, he was all-to aware of the other boy in the room with him, stripping off his shirt to reveal the splotches of bruises that ran in purplish blossoms across his pallid skin.

_Boop, boop_

_Beep_

Mail pretended he couldn't hear the hisses of pain from Mello.

The damn truth was he heard them over the volume of his game. His hands were unsteady on the buttons, contrary to how they normally glided naturally over the buttons. The small colored letters on the buttons had been rubbed off from use. Reaching up with one hand, he yanked down the goggles that sat on his forehead. The familiar yellow-distortion gave him a small amount of comfort.

_Game over_

Mail stared blankly at the screen in front of him. Those words like some sort of harbinger for the future. He'd lost, and for some reason…it didn't seem to bother him. Even though he'd yet to see those iridescent words illuminating the ghastly all-black screen. He'd never made a mistake before, never taken a false step. He'd guided himself expertly for the game…and he'd never died.

_Game_

_Over_

The words blinked harshly at him.

Another hiss sounded from Mello's side of the room. Matt pulled his goggles down and let them dangle around his neck. The gamer's lips parted as unbidden sound descended out.

"Are you alright?"

Mello glanced up, his blue eyes caught slightly off guard. He had become used to the normal, dense muteness between them. "What do you care?" His tone was slightly hurt and wounded but it still retained that fervent pride. Mail stared at him and his bruised, naked chest. A red rosary dangled like a drop of blood against a white surface. Even the violet bruises that mutilated the blank skin couldn't seem to dull the way the potent red stuck out against it.

Mello narrowed his eyes when he saw Matt staring, turning away so his back was now only visible. This shunning was received in a melancholy manner from the red-head as watched the bruise-ridden back for just a few moments more.

-o-

The tray was set down with a small, if not slightly agitated thud. Mail glanced up from his game, noting that the normally deserted seat beside him had just been taken up. The person who had decided to grace the gamer with his presence was…

Matt gaped.

Mail averted his eyes, staring down at his own untouched food. He tried to loose himself in the world of Mario set out before him, but he'd beaten it so many times it was hard to immerse himself in something where he knew virtually every turn, every twist that shock a first-time player. All of this was getting rather dull for Mail now, even though he still enjoyed the game-play aspect of it. The red-head was astounded by the way that Mello-kid could cram food down his throat. It was as if he was inhaling it and not actually eating it.

Staring down at his own sustenance, Mail's stomach lurched uncomfortably.

It was silent as it normally was…but there was something different about it. If someone looked at the scene set before them, would they not assume the two were friends? One red-head sitting leisurely on the aged seat, playing away at his game One blond, wolfing down his food as though it was the last morsel he would have for weeks. Both side by side in sort of…silent companionship…

No, what was he thinking? He highly doubted that Mello harbored any kind of fondness for him and after how cold he'd been Mail wouldn't be surprised. Still, it was hard to fathom how he was willing to sit there, side by side with the icy gamer. Maybe he had no where else to go. After the beating he received yesterday, it wouldn't be hard to surmise that he had no place, no niche that he could fill in this orphanage.

The silence seemed almost golden for a time. Neither would dare break it, for both new if one spoke the other would retort hotly. So the silence stayed and both of them seemed to accept that. The two seemed to function best when no words were needed to communicate, just mute understanding.

Mello had cleaned his plate entirely whilst Mail's still remaining full.

"Matt…" Mello raised an eyebrow, peering over the other boy's hands to glance at the liberal servings of macaroni still sitting upon the sickly blue tray, ripe for tasting. "You gonna eat that?"

Matt looked up, Mario falling to his doom off a cliff as he did so.

"Take it."

There was no thanks exchanged, just more silence. However Mail could think of only one thing. It clogged his mind and absorbed all his others thoughts like a porous sponge.

'_That was the first time he ever…said my name'_

-o-

A sort of schedule developed. Each afternoon when every child was bidden to receive fresh air, Mello always seemed near him. The stocky blond would lean against the tree with his arms crossed defiantly. Mail would sit upon one of the knotted roots at the base of the antique greenery. That silence would reign again between them.

By the time lunch came, Mello would assume his position next to Mail, always eager to intercept his portion of food. It was a wonder how the thin, hot-headed boy stayed so slim when he ate like he did. Still the silence would dominate the two.

They would retreat back to their shared room by the eve, scribbling down some unfinished homework and whatnot. The shunning, the invisible wall between the two seemed to be breaking and falling apart. There wasn't an immovable object between the two now, just the silence. That everlasting silence that seemed to weave the two together in an intricate web…already connected by the strings, unaware as of yet.

-o-

The rain had battered down for almost the whole afternoon. The restless children that inhabited Wammy's were cooped up like birds without a place to stretch their wings. Everyone became irritable. Finally the rain seemed to stop its torrential downpours and gave a short reprieve. The warm golden sun began to be revealed from behind the thick veil of clouds. The children emerged onto the sodden playground, jumping in puddles and sliding upon the water-laden grass.

Mail noted with irritation that rainwater trickled from the leaves and landed upon him as he assumed his seat upon the roots of his favorite tree. It was late, dark was approaching. The young kids basked in the light of the massive, orange sun that hung low upon the horizon. It seemed as if the clouds were finally parting to reveal a much more pleasant scene as opposed to the dull grey one that dominated the sky just moments ago.

Mail stood petulantly from his resting place, jamming both hands in his pockets. Mello leaned against the damp tree, not bothered by the saturated atmosphere. His eyes were closed peacefully as he tilted there like a statue. One of the boys slid in front of Mail, splattering his clothes with loose pieces of grass and tiny pearls of moist mud. Mail scowled at him, scornfully cursing him for wrecking his clothing.

It seemed only moments later that searing pain ripped through Mail's face. He was knocked down onto the mud that caked the earth, sliding backwards from the force. His vision blurred for a moment before focusing back to the sharp, clear world he was accustomed to. He struggled to stand, sliding and falling on the tricky terrain.

After a moment he resigned and just lay there, feeling the sickening sensation of the mud beneath his back. Was it worth getting up anymore? Wouldn't it be nice if he could just lay there for all of eternity, just staring up at the clouds that now began to migrate back over the falling sun? The clouds blotted out the sun and everyone began to file back indoors, preparing for more rain.

Mail didn't get up.

Mello leaned over the red-head, nudging his body with his boot. "You're an idiot," he parroted tonelessly.

Mail didn't reply.

"C'mon Matt, get your ass up." Mello thrust his hand out, waiting for the gamer to take it. Mail watched it levitate there.

Matt took his hand.

_Fin._


	2. December

Great mounds of snow hung heavily atop the branches of trees

Great mounds of snow sat heavily atop the branches of trees. The greenery hung down even lower than it had during fall. The snow-laden limbs looked as though they were about to break under the white substance that burdened them so. All of this was absorbed by the teenage boy who watched with a blank gaze nearly as chilly as the atmosphere beyond the glass.

Icy nostalgia gripped with chilled fingers at his heart. Images of previous winters danced elegantly across his memory, the silver storms that whipped the outdoors with brilliant, deadly beauty. The spindly designs that were etched into the glass, each pattern an individual work by Jack Frost himself. Light, miniscule flakes that wafted down from the thick, grey clouds that covered the sky hopelessly.

Matt closed his eyes, remembering his first December, and the wonder that overtook him then mixed with the grief of his past. The wonder that still lingered somewhere deep in his heart. He slowly raised a hand to press tentatively against the window. Flinching at first from the cold, yet slowly his numb fingertips began to press more surely upon the glass. His face lowered so the tip of his nose was but a centimeter away from the barrier that kept him from the outside world. The cold emanated around his facial features despite that his face was so cold, somehow it warmed his heart. How he yearned to just sit there for all of eternity, to watch the regal, shining world that seemed to so alien.

_Click. _

The window lock responded with that small noise of its compliance. Raw fingers wedged under the wooden frame, sliding it up. Wisps of frigid air whispered inside the room, several idle snowflakes had managed to be plucked from the ground and carried indoors by the gusts. Matt shuddered with the cutting temperature but his face was serene, his lips set in an intense, perfect line. His eyelids drifted as the wind did, sitting there and bearing the cold. It was just so…perfect.

_Click. _

Mail's eyes flicked open. The door, someone was about to enter. His respiration accelerated, plumes of his own breath dancing around his lips. He closed the window with a loud thud and pulled down the shades with mute urgency. The oaken door swung open.

Mello's eyes widened as he felt the chill hit him with full frontal force. Luckily he was donning his thick, faded red coat. The color of a dying ember. His wide blue eyes quickly regained their composure and narrowed. "Christ, its cold. What the hell were you doing in here?"

"Nothing," Mail said quietly, not looking at the blond. He pretended to busy himself with tidying up and organizing his games. Mello was not so easily fooled.

"Jesus, did you have the fucking window open? Do you know how cold it is outside?" Mello cocked an eyebrow after his scolding, waiting impatiently for an answer.

"Nothing," Mail snapped, irritation now inflaming his normally passive voice. "…nothing." He looked away. Mello could only shake his head disdainfully, pressing deeper into his thick woolen jacket and jam his hands into the caverns of his pockets.

Matt felt the cold abate and the warmth slowly begin to ebb back into the room. With one last exhalation, he watched his now hardly visible breath drift from his lips and then vanish into blissful nothingness.

-o-

_The car shuddered unsteadily upon the road. The world outside the protective window was but a mystery, the snow whipped so steadily and in such abundance it left everything distorted and hardly visible. The windshield wipers worked furiously back and forth, back and forth to clear the layer of white that continuously settled upon the glass. Each turn rattled the little automobile violently. _

_Fingertips were placed against the frosty glass, solemnly taking in the weather with grim countenance. A small boy, naught but 7 years old sat shivering in the empty backseat of the car. He was huddled up in a corner, the rest of the leather seating looking oddly empty. His eyes were wide with a sort of fear, as though he had seen a great horror and his eyes forever locked widely as though each passing moment was an equal horror._

_His expression softened as the car jerked, lifting his small, seven-year old bottom off the seat for a millisecond. He bowed his head, folding his hands neatly in his lap. A nest of red hair, damp from the melting flakes nestled in his locks, hung over his face. His body shook slightly, and it was not from the cold. He was so afraid, he was so young and already he couldn't handle the hand life had dealt him. It was just too much, he couldn't bear it. _

_And yet, no matter how much he wished it would all go away, the stubborn hourglass would not stop. The car did not stop moving, he did not stop breathing, the sun did not stop rising, the snow did not stop coming down. Life did not stop; it did not give pregnant pause for pity, not for anyone. Life goes on and on, and this boy. This small, horrified boy wanted it all to freeze. To be as frozen as the tundra outside. _

_He convulsed, squeezing his eyes closed and biting down on his jaw to stop from crying. The dry feeling in the back of his throat signaled the onslaught of tears and with every miniscule molecule of strength the boy retained, he fought back that incessant urge. That raw feeling in the back of his throat that informed him to scream, to sob, to let everything out._

_Small tears slipped out from his tersely shut eyes and dropped onto his gloved hands. Still clasped on his lap. _

_The car shuddered, finally coming to a stop. With sudden alarm, the boy went desperately to swipe the few tears that had managed to leak through the cracks in his resolve. One hand went to rub at his reddening eyes and the other sat complacently upon his lap, dots of moisture marking where his tears had hit the fabric. The car door was opened; the old man that had taken him stood waiting. It was a miracle that the elder could see through his glasses, so many snowflakes had latched onto the lens. _

"_Come now," he said, voice rising over the whipping wind. He gave a strained smile and offered his hand. The boy looked down at his own pair, pausing as if in thought. He ignored the offered hand but clambered out of the automobile. His eyes were focused solely onto the ground, refusing to meet the kind old man's gaze._

_There was another old man standing at the gate. He was like a darkened blotch against the all-white landscape. His thick, black coat marked him as a solemn figure standing next to the gate that guarded and imposing complex of buildings. The young boy betrayed himself and squinted up to get a look at the buildings. The hardly visible sign was the main thing that caught his attention. _

'_**Wammy's House'**_

_The old man that had first taken him was walking with quickened his pace to meet with the man at the gate. The two shook hands and greeted each other warmly despite the weather. The red-head boy watched for a moment before looking down at the white drifts about his feet. He leaned down, pressing his glove lightly against the blank sheet. _

_A circle._

_Two dots. _

_A smile. _

_The boy stared at the face drawn into the snow. He added several squiggles that signified hair. He could only picture one face…her…_

_The shout could be heard over the wind, signaling for the young boy to come to attention._

"_Mail!"_

_He lost his balance, one hand jutting out to stop his fall. After impact, he drew back, regaining his balance and standing up straight. Only to glance down and see a large handprint smothering the happy face he had illustrated in the white. _

_Mail shuddered out a pained breath, wisps of visible respiration dissipating in the storm._

-o-

The snow was melting. It revealed the true earth that lay beneath the icy, cold exterior it flaunts in the chilled months. Underneath is but muddy earth and patched, dead grass. Mottled with unhealthy yellow colors and the dull brown. Mail played away this hated time in the sanctuary of his games.

The door clicked open. Familiar footsteps reverberated through the sparse room. Mail glanced from his game to see a muddy, spattered Mello entering. His lip was bleeding profusely and several flecks of red stood out against the insipid brown. "Fight?" Matt asked tonelessly, still glancing over his shoulder.

"Yeah," Mello replied grudgingly, dusting off his jacket in vain. It was already bloodstained and encrusted with muck. "Bastards ganged up on me…again." Mello spat out the words like they were something bitter and sickening. Mail shrugged indifferently.

"Maybe you should try getting someone to help you."

It sounded as though the blond was gathering up his saliva to spit upon the gamer, but he held it back. "I don't need help," he retorted, offended as if his roommate fancied him so weak he needed help. He was Mello, he needed no help, he could do it on his own. At least, Mail thought, that's what the bruises he sported each night meant. Whatever, it wasn't any of his business. He didn't care.

"I know I can wipe the floor with those dipshits," Mello murmured to himself, peeling off his jacket and leaving the sodden, bloody thing lying haphazardly upon the oak paneling. He paced wildly, fingering his rosary every now and then and murmuring something inaudible under his breath. It was odd, he seemed very devout and pious and yet, he beat upon other children, he cussed incessantly, and was not what you would assume a religious human being. In fact he seemed as though he would instead be a godless boy bent on his own wrath and agenda.

His moral code was somehow ambiguous, elusive to the ever-observant Mail. How he sinned so readily yet prayed just as readily at his bedside each night. It was confusing and contradictory and struck a shade of grey in such a black and white perception. However people are inexplicable, they do inexplicable things for inexplicable reasons. They are perhaps the most unpredictable of creatures, mostly because they hold such mental power and yet all the temptations that coincide with such psychological capacity. Not to mention the odd power of emotion that none of us can escape. Empathy, hatred, rage, passion, infatuation, sorrowfulness, elation, hopelessness. They are the very things that make us human, that make us kind and loving or rotten and cruel.

Mail is a familiar with emotions. Sometimes the most impassive people are the people that hurt the most. They hide because they must, at least in their mind. Despite the fact people build such barriers and walls blocking off their emotions, you can't escape what you truly are. A human and emotions are what make us this.

Mail shook his head as the blond continued to pace perpetually across the room. His face was lined with deep thought and perhaps a hint of plotting. Yes, definitely plotting, Mail added in as an afterthought.

It would be a lie to say that Mello was all simply talk and had nothing to show for it. He was very bright and astute not to mention his heated passion for anything that even resembled a competition. However often times being caught up in the heat of the moment was his downfall. He let his own emotions pull him down into the abyss and control actions and rational thought. His own pride tended to swell in front of his sharp mind. Despite these faults, one could at least say he was an admirable kid.

At least he had seemed to be a bit more popular than Mail had ever proved to be. He stuck up for himself, did well in school, hell in a short while he had pushed the gamer aside to take his position of second. This seemingly didn't affect Mail all that much. To be quite honest he didn't really desire to be the next L. He was quite sure that Near was fit for the job seeing how impossibly intelligent he was. Not to mention his astounding abilities to solve riddles and puzzles as if they were nothing at all. The red-head caught a glimpse once of the reclusive albino only to see the massive completely blank puzzle at his feet.

Almost finished, missing six or perhaps seven pieces.

It was almost surreal how logistical someone's mind could be and yet it seemed that it was all that Near had. In a way Mail could relate to the boy. Neither of them had any exaggerated personality traits or the ability to express emotion well. Neither of them enjoyed a venture into the outdoors (however Near was excused of this because he happened to be number one). And they both lived almost meaningless, blank lives. One surrounded by toys, the other by video games as if to distract them from the fact that they were just so…so…

And once again there was no certain word that held a place in Mail's chilly heart enough to claim a place at the end of that sentence. By this point he felt as though his vocabulary was degrading greatly. Either that or things were becoming so twisted in his own mind, so beyond words that it was hard to select one that pin down something so delicate and precise. Mail both approves and hates the latter.

-o-

The sun was deceptively bright out, for it offered none of the warmth it would so generously distribute on a summers day. Instead it was nothing more than bright and empty. It was still chilly out to the point where one would require a jacket. Anyone that thought themselves man enough to go without one would simply regret it several minutes later.

All the snow had been disappearing at a rapid rate and by now there was nothing left. Nothing at all as a reminder of a painful yet somehow resplendent season. Most kids held a fondness of it simply for Christmas, but such holidays were merely irrelevant to Mail. Instead he spent his time doing more important things than the frivolous exchange of gifts and gathering around a tree hacked from the earth and wreathed in blinding euphoric lights. Not to mention he hadn't an ounce of religion in him, any reverence that might still be preserved was quickly stamped upon and ground into the dust with the heel of Mail's boot.

Said teenager was pacing slightly back and forth across a small patch of grass that he so boldly deemed his own. Not as if he owned this small island but for the time being he thought of it as his own personal domain and if anyone dare breach his stronghold there would be dire consequences. This pathetic little spot of unhealthy grass seemed to become victim to the treacherous stamping of Mail's rather large boots as he paraded back and forth on his territory.

It was a horrid habit that Mail assumed was rubbing off on him from the blond entity that had managed to even worm into his actions. It was a pain the way he paced now however he did little to stop it. Other than mentally berate himself, he let his legs move as if of their own accord to carry him back and forth in an endless, steady pace. He scowled lightly at the looks he received for his impulsive tempo. Deciding he needed a quiet place where he wouldn't be bother, much like he was being now in the open, he abandoned his treasured soil.

His legs carried him down into the convenient crevice of sheltered space between two of the complexes. It was closed off on all sides except for the entrance which was visible from the 'playground' of Wammy's. Mail sighed, jamming his hands into his pockets. The only people that ever inhabited this private cleft were the more sketchy kids, the slimy ones that were into things they shouldn't be. Still, they didn't question when someone entered.

Shuffling his fingers in his pockets, the gamer dragged his feet along as he entered. He received a few nods from some of the more elder children that still lived in Wammy's. Some of the younger ones looked a little bit fresher than the older ones. The eldest seemed to look spent and dry, dark circles marring underneath their eyes. Mail shuddered slightly and avoided eye contact. The horrors in these eyes were perhaps some of the most frighteningly realistic.

He flopped down, propping his back up upon the brick of the building wall. It was silent, but the silence was welcome. For the most part Mail sat in solitude, unmolested, that was until he was confronted with another boy. He pulled a package out of his pocket, shuffling through his jacket pockets to find something. After a moment he produced a silver object, a lighter.

Drawing a small white object to his lips, he brought the lighter up to meet it, flicking it on. He let the smoke roll off his lips, holding out the box as if it was an invitation. Several of the boys nodded and took one, leaning forward for a light. Mail watched with curiosity shining in his eyes each time the lighter was aflame with that tiny, persistent light. This boy noticed Mail staring.

"Want one?" he asked his tone rather critical. An eyebrow was raised and he shook the package once as if to emphasize his point.

Matt leaned forward to grab a smoke, following the example he had carefully observed from the others. After lighting up, he coughed slightly. It took a moment to adjust, to finally realize…

The plumes of smoke that emanated from his mouth in a hazy fog. And just for a moment,

All he could think of was December.

_Fin. _


End file.
